My Fight / Your Fight Read online

  For Mom and Dad, I hope you’re proud of me.

  “There is no history of anything happening until it does. And then there is.”

  —Mom

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Foreword by Dana White, President of the UFC

  Why I Fight

  Fight Night

  I Was Born Ready

  Winning Is the Greatest Feeling in the World

  Everything Can Change in a Split Second

  Never Underestimate an Opponent

  Losing Is One of the Most Devastating Experiences in Life

  Tragedy Precedes Success

  Do Not Accept Less than What You’re Capable Of

  Just Because It’s a Rule Doesn’t Mean It’s Right

  Pain Is Just One Piece of Information

  Turn Limitations into Opportunities

  Trust in Knowledge, Not in Strength

  Know When to Move On

  Find Fulfillment in the Sacrifices

  You Have to Be the Best on Your Worst Day

  No One Has the Right to Beat You

  You Will Never Win a Fight by Running Away

  Don’t Rely on Others to Make Your Decisions

  People Around You Control Your Reality

  The End of a Failed Move Is Always the Beginning of the Next One

  Anything of Value Has to Be Earned

  Everything Is as Easy as a Decision

  When Do You Cross the Magical Boundary That Stops You from Dreaming Big?

  People Appreciate Excellence No Matter Who You Are

  A Loss Is Still a Loss, but It’s Better to Go Out in Flaming Glory

  This Is My Situation, but This Isn’t My Life

  You Can’t Rely on Just One Thing to Make You Happy

  Disregard Nonessential Information

  Relationships That Are Easily Ruined Were Never Worth Much

  Someone Has to Be the Best in the World. Why Not You?

  Finding a Coach Is Like Finding a Boyfriend

  You Will Be Tested

  Champions Always Do More

  Plan Out the First Exchange

  Nothing Will Ever Be Perfect

  If It Was Easy, Everyone Would Do It

  The Only Power People Have Over You Is the Power You Give Them

  Winning Is a Habit

  I’d Rather Expose Myself Willingly Than Wait in Fear for It to Happen Against My Will

  Refuse to Accept Any Other Reality

  The Best Fighters Are Patient at the Right Times

  There Is a Moment in a Match Where It’s There for the Taking and It Comes Down to Who Wants It Most

  Fight for Every Single Second

  You Have to Be Willing to Embarrass Yourself

  Success Is the Best Revenge

  Learn to Read the Rest Beats

  Prepare for the Perfect Opponent

  Don’t Let Anyone Force You to Take a Step Backward

  The Answer Is: There Is No Right Answer

  I Have Been There

  The Hardest Part Is Knowing When to Walk Away

  Winning

  Thank you . . .

  About the Authors

  FOREWORD

  BY DANA WHITE, PRESIDENT OF THE UFC

  Ronda Rousey is a game changer.

  Of course I didn’t know that in 2011, when I was in Los Angeles and was asked by TMZ when women were going to fight in the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC). I looked at the camera and said, “Never.”

  Back then, I meant it. I had no problem with women fighting and making a living doing it, but whenever the subject of having them compete in the UFC came up, I flashed back to this fight I had seen in a local show in Northern California. There was this woman who fought just like a guy, and she was in the ring with someone who looked like she took five Tae Bo classes. It was one of the worst, one-sided beatings I’ve ever seen, and I just didn’t want to see that in the UFC.

  Then Ronda showed up.

  A few months after the TMZ interview, we had a show in Las Vegas, and someone was calling my name. It was Ronda Rousey. I had heard of her; I had been told that she was a good female fighter. I walked over, shook her hand, and she said, “I’m gonna fight for you someday and I’m going to be your first female world champion.” Now you’ve got to understand, everybody—men and women—tells me that. They all say, “I’m gonna work for you someday and be your next world champion.”

  But she was persistent, and as I watched her compete in the Strikeforce promotion that we had bought, I knew that she was something special. Ronda asked to have a meeting with me at one of the UFC events. Fifteen minutes into the conversation, I was thinking to myself, “I think I’m gonna do this. She’s the one who can kick-start this whole thing, and I believe every word that’s coming out of her mouth.” She had such charisma and energy. And to watch her fight, she was unbelievable.

  So I made my decision, Ronda came in, and I made her the main event of UFC 157 on February 23, 2013. That decision got a lot of heat from the media and the fans, but she went out that night in Anaheim and delivered an awesome fight against Liz Carmouche. It was exciting from the moment it started until it finished, just before the bell rang to end the first round.

  That was just the beginning.

  The level of talent among the women just skyrocketed. It took off so fast that I never saw it coming. And leading it all was Ronda. She really is the perfect storm. I knew it, I felt it, and I went with it. Talent, looks, determination, she has it all. And while she went from bartender to superstardom, the reality is that she was always this amazing athlete, a former Olympic medalist who finally found what it was she wanted to do. She realized that she was a competitor who wanted to go out there and prove that she was the absolute best. And once she came to that realization, she took over the world of mixed martial arts, absolutely dominated it, and became one of the biggest, if not the biggest, stars in the UFC.

  When I call her a game changer, it’s because she is one in every sense of the word. Not just for women, but for women’s sports too. People always say, “Ah, women’s basketball, it’s the WNBA,” “Women’s golf, they hit from a shorter tee,” “Women’s tennis, they don’t hit as hard as the men.” Nobody says that about Ronda Rousey. She is one of the most intense, unbelievable athletes I’ve worked with in all my years in boxing and MMA, and I’m not alone in comparing her in the Octagon to a prime Mike Tyson. Watch her intensity, watch how she walks out and how she runs after her opponent. She’s not messing around, and when she comes out to fight, you know bad stuff is going to happen to her opponent.

  She just has this focus, not just in a fight or in training, but in her everyday life. This is a woman who doesn’t party. All she does is wake up every morning and say, “How can I be better than I was yesterday?” That’s literally how she lives her life.

  Ronda is an incredible role model, empowering women and girls. When I was a kid, the boys played over here and the girls played over there; the boys do all the physical stuff and the girls play with dolls and play house. This past Halloween girls across the country dressed up as Ronda Rousey. That’s because she’s an amazing, beautiful, and powerful woman.

  She inspires everyone. This past summer, the Little League World Series was going on, and Pierce Jones, a thirteen-year-old African-American boy from the South Side of Chicago, one of the stars of the series, comes up to bat, and underneath all his stats, it listed his favorite athlete. It was Ronda Rousey. That’s groundbreaking. He could have picked anyone—LeBron James, Derek Jeter, there are so many male athletes to choose from—but his favorite athlete is Ronda Rousey.

  Ronda has changed the world of sports, and by the time she’s done, she may change the world as well. I don’t put anythin
g past her, and I almost feel like Ronda Rousey is writing her book too soon, because she’s just getting started. What this woman is going to accomplish is going to be amazing, so get ready for Part Two of the Ronda Rousey story.

  WHY I FIGHT

  I am a fighter.

  To be a fighter, you have to be passionate. I have so much passion, it’s hard to hold it all in. That passion escapes as tears from my eyes, sweat from my pores, blood from my veins.

  So many people assume that I’m cold and callous, but the truth is you need a big heart to fight. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I have had it broken too. I can compete with broken toes or stitches in my foot. I can take a hit without batting an eyelash, but I will burst into tears if a sad song comes on the radio. I am vulnerable; that’s why I fight.

  It has been that way since I was born. I fought for my first breath. I fought for my first words. The battle to be respected and heard is one I’m still fighting. For a long time, I felt I had to fight for every little thing. But now, one big battle every couple of months makes up for all the minor ones I forfeit every day. Some lost battles are small. Getting cut off in traffic. Taking shit from a boss. The everyday slights that drive us up to the edge. Some lost battles are life altering. Losing someone you love. Failing to achieve the one thing you have worked hardest for.

  I fight for my dad, who lost his battle, dying when I was eight years old, and for my mom, who taught me how to win every second of my life.

  I fight to make the people who love me proud. To make the people who hate me seethe. I fight for anyone who has ever been lost, who has ever been left, or who is battling their own demons.

  Achieving greatness is a long and arduous battle that I fight every day. Fighting is how I succeed. I don’t just mean inside a 750-square-foot cage or within the confines of a 64-square-meter mat. Life is a fight from the minute you take your first breath to the moment you exhale your last. You have to fight the people who say it can never be done. You have to fight the institutions that put up the glass ceilings that must be shattered. You have to fight your body when it tells you it is tired. You have to fight your mind when doubt begins to creep in. You have to fight systems that are put in place to disrupt you and obstacles that are put in place to discourage you. You have to fight because you can’t count on anyone else fighting for you. And you have to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. To get anything of real value, you have to fight for it.

  I learned how to fight and how to win. Whatever your obstacles, whoever or whatever your adversary, there is a way to victory.

  Here is mine.

  FIGHT NIGHT

  It is late afternoon by the time I get up. I have slept all day, waking up to eat and then going back into hibernation. I get dressed, pulling on the black shorts and black sports bra.

  My hotel room is warm. I want my body to be warm, loose.

  I stand in front of the mirror. I pull my hair back in sections. First the top, securing it with an elastic band. Then the left. Then the right. Until all my hair falls down my neck. I take another elastic and bring the three sections together, winding them tightly into a bun. My hair pulls at my scalp and opens my eyes wide. As I am standing in front of the mirror something clicks. Seeing myself prepared for battle I feel transformed; everything is different.

  There is an hour before it is time to leave. I pull on my Reebok sweats and my battle boots—cheap, black, faux-suede Love Culture boots that are falling apart but that have seen me through almost every professional win.

  My team is sitting in the living room of my hotel suite, spread out between the loveseat-sized sofa and a couple of chairs. Their voices are hushed, but the occasional muffled laugh comes through the closed door. I can hear them moving around. Edmond, my head coach, double-checks his bag to make sure we are not forgetting anything. Rener, who trains me in Brazilian Jiujitsu, rolls and re-rolls the banner with my sponsors’ logos that will be displayed behind me in the cage. He wants the banner to be just right, so it can be unfurled with a simple flick of the wrist. Martin, who trains me in wrestling, is unflappably calm. Justin, my training partner in judo and childhood friend, rubs his hands anxiously. They are decked out head-to-toe in my team’s official walkout gear.

  I open the door separating the two rooms, and everyone freezes. The room is silent.

  Security knocks on the door; they’re ready to escort us down.

  When I walk out of the hotel room, I feel like Superman stepping out of the phone booth—chest out, cape billowing behind him. Unstoppable. Unbeatable. Only instead of an S, I have the UFC logo emblazoned across my chest. My mean face is on. From the minute I leave the room, I’m in fight mode.

  Outside my door there are three men with earpieces tasked to take me down to my fight.

  “Are you ready?” the head officer asks—he means to walk down to the arena.

  “Ready,” I reply—I mean to win the fight.

  Edmond glances around the room, doing a final visual sweep. He hands me my Monster headphones and I slip them on around my neck.

  The head security officer leads the way. My team surrounds me, and the other two officers take up the back.

  We march through service elevators into tunnels of concrete floors, fluorescent lighting, and exposed pipes. The hallways are empty, and the sounds of our feet reverberate through the corridors. We pass underground rooms where concession workers clock in and rooms where the recycling is sorted. I hear the din from the employee cafeteria. The beeping of a forklift loading pallets fades into silence as we walk through the maze toward the locker room.

  As we get closer, I see more signs of life. Production staffers weave through the halls. Cameramen, more security, coaches, athletes, athletic commission members, random strangers are popping in and out of doors. An official from the state athletic commission joins us as we enter the arena. From this moment until I leave the building at the end of the night, I will never be out of her sight.

  On my locker room door there’s a white paper printout with my name in black letters held up by electrical tape. “Good luck,” the security officer says as I step into the windowless cinderblock room. The walls are light beige; the carpet is thin and dark. There’s an athletic mat on the floor and a flat-screen TV on the wall plays the live broadcast of the undercard fights.

  In other locker rooms, people bring stereos and play music. People joke and make light of things.

  My locker room is serious. It is quiet. No one smiles. I don’t like people telling jokes in my locker room. Now is not a time to tell jokes. From the minute we leave my hotel room, do not fuck around. The time for fucking around is over. Some serious shit is about to happen.

  I am not looking to escape the pressure. I am embracing it. Pressure is what builds up in the chamber behind a bullet before it explodes out of the gun.

  We walk into the locker room and settle in. My fifth cornerman, Gene LeBell, an MMA pioneer and longtime family friend, joins up with us. He sits clicking his stopwatch on and off. I lie down on the floor, my head on my bag. I close my eyes. I try to drift off to sleep.

  I wake up and want to warm up, but it is too early and Edmond stops me.

  “Relax, it’s not time yet,” he says in his thick Armenian accent. His voice is calm and reassuring. He rubs my shoulders briefly, as if trying to knead out the excess energy surging through my body.

  I want to bounce around and do something. I want to be more ready.

  “Even if you’re cold, you’re fine,” Edmond says. “Just relax. You don’t want to over warm up.”

  Edmond wraps my hands as the representative from the state athletic commission watches to make sure everything about the wrapping process is legit.

  Gauze first. Then the white fabric tape that makes a ripping sound as it pulls away from the roll. I watch as the tape loops hypnotically between my fingers, around my hands, and down to my wrists. Then Edmond smooths the end of the tape along my wrist and I am one step closer to the moment I have b
een waiting for, the moment I have been training for, the moment I have never been more ready for.

  The commission official signs my wraps with a black permanent marker. I start stretching, bouncing around a bit. Edmond holds the mitts for a few punches, but stops me before it goes too long. It feels like it’s not quite enough. I am itching to do more.

  “Relax, relax,” he says.

  Over the broadcast I can hear the crowd. As more people pour in the excitement builds until I can hear the noise pushing through the walls. The crowd’s energy pulsates through the concrete into my body.

  The clock ticks. Edmond sits me down on a folding chair. He leans in close.

  “You are more prepared than this girl,” he says to me. “You are better in every area than she is. You have fought for this moment. You have sweated for this moment. You have busted your ass for this moment. Everything we have done has led up to right now. You are the best in the world. Now, go out there and fuck this girl up.”

  Destroying my opponent is the only thing I want to do in that moment. It is the singular focus of every cell in my body.

  In the hallway, I hear Burt Watson’s gravelly voice. Burt is the official babysitter of UFC fighters, which means he handles so many random things that there’s not a title for what he does other than to say he helps take care of us.

  “We rollin’, yeah!” he shouts. “This is what we do, and why we do it, baby. This is your night, your fight. Don’t let them take your night, baby.” His voice bellows along the corridor as he walks me out. I get excited.

  My challenger always comes out first. I can’t see her, but I hear her lame music blasting throughout the arena. I immediately hate her walkout song.

  I hear the audience react to her. In the shadow of the tunnel, I can feel their applause pounding the air, but I know that their reaction to me is going to explode through the arena. People are going to lose their goddamn minds when I walk out. I can almost feel their roar in my bones, and I know that the noise will rattle my challenger.

  Edmond presses my face hard. He rubs my ears and nose. My face tenses, preparing for possible impact. He pulls my hair back tighter on my head. My scalp tingles. My eyes widen. I am awake. I am alert. I am ready.